Without warning, the golden-haired boy arches forward from his seat, and Kouhei reels as a stark sense of alarm leaks freely from his features — one that slowly evolves into a simmering petulance. “W-what the heck are you–?”

He stutters to a halt as Takato leans closer, green eyes wide and unrelenting. His features are but mere inches from his own, and as their diminishing proximity teeters on the precipice of non-existence, Kouhei finds the palpitations within his chest scaling rapidly up the frequency chart.

“T-Takato– you–“

Sniff.

What follows is nothing but a clueless, single-eyed blink.

“Hmmm,” Takato muses, cupping his chin as he draws back. “It does kinda’ smell like one.”